


Weak, My Love, and I Am Wanting

by TabbyCat33098



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ballads, Getting Together, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22220386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TabbyCat33098/pseuds/TabbyCat33098
Summary: Jaskier has written a lot of ballads about some woman who has stolen his heart. The thing is, he's been on the road with Geralt for the past month. He hasn't had any time to court a woman, much less have his heart broken by her. So who is this woman? The answer may shock you.//“There’s no lady,” Geralt says.Jaskier trails off. “Well, of course not,” he says instead. “I imagine a woman would take grave offense to the frequency with which we give our patronage to brothels, not to mention your unseemly habit of bathing in monster blood and other revolting gunk.” He wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps I should write an ode to your masterful powers of observation next.”“But you were talking about a woman tonight,” Geralt continues, ignoring Jaskier entirely.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 287
Kudos: 7842
Collections: Best Geralt, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY, oh YES





	Weak, My Love, and I Am Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> So we're all in agreement that Her Sweet Kiss is about Geralt, and how Yennefer's kiss is destroying Jaskier and Geralt's relationship, yeah? I've had Her Sweet Kiss playing on repeat for literally the last 2 days, so of course my emotions are all over the place. 
> 
> Alt title: Of Fair Ladies and Fairer Witchers
> 
> I've only watched the show, so apologies for any inconsistencies with other Witcher media!
> 
> ETA: Russian translation now available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8984393), courtesy of user [isomalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isomalt/pseuds/isomalt)!

Jaskier doesn’t start on the sweeter ballads until after he’s eaten his dinner and enjoyed a mug of ale. By then, the last vestiges of daylight have given way to inky darkness shot through with stars, and the innkeeper has stoked the fire to a roaring inferno, and the kind of lazy contentedness that accompanies a full belly has settled over the locals like a blanket, all of this working to create a decidedly more receptive audience for tender tales of lost love and distant adventure. So Jaskier looks around and notes how the conversation has dulled, and he begins picking out chords and runs, starting simple and working his way to more melancholy melodies.

He gets “Toss a Coin” out of the way early. It’s a crowd-pleaser and guaranteed to recoup the cost of his supper—and Geralt’s, when the Witcher deigns to join him—at least twice over. He fumbles his way through a couple of local ballads he’s still learning, about old spirits and familiar legends, and he tells the poeticized tale of a kikimora Geralt recently dispatched. And then, to end of his performance, he indulges himself with one of his more wistful ballads about love and heartbreak.

He has an alarmingly robust collection of those, and he rotates through them: the bittersweet lament about a love that slipped out of his reach; the tragic tale of the woman with no smile; the ode to the muse whose quick wit enthralled him only to leave him desolate, yearning, utterly alone. These ballads are too forlorn to see frequent use, but Jaskier has a soft spot for them. They tell his own story, after all. It’s cathartic to lose himself in the movement of his fingers across the strings of his lute, the plaintive runs that bookend his choruses. And the ballads have the added bonus of occasionally attracting a barmaid sympathetic to his plight and willing to help him forget his sorrows.

By the time he and Geralt pay for a room in a town where the air is sticky with humidity and sharp with the faint scent of seawater, it’s been more than a month since his last tumble with an eager barmaid, and Jaskier is thrumming with excess energy. He works his way through three ballads that night before noticing he’s picked up an audience.

“She must have stolen your heart quite thoroughly,” says one of the women lingering near Jaskier and Geralt when Jaskier finally shakes himself out of his trance, “to have inspired three ballads.”

“She is the beauty of my world,” Jaskier agrees. He begins packing up his lute; he’s indulged himself enough tonight. “My ballads capture only a fraction of her splendor.”

“Tell us about her, then,” says a barmaid, and the rest of Jaskier’s audience sends up a chorus of agreement. “She’s a lucky woman to have caught your attention.”

Geralt, who has been silent until now, snorts. “Yes, Jaskier, tell us. I can’t wait to hear about the fair lady who has caught your eye,” he says dryly, and it’s only because Jaskier is now fluent in Geralt’s sparse manner of speaking that he hears the words Geralt isn’t saying, hears _you’ve been on the road with me for a month, how will you spin your way out of this?_

Jaskier meets Geralt’s gaze without flinching. He grins slightly, casts his eyes over his captive audience, all hanging off his every word. “I’m not one to kiss and tell,” he begins, affecting wistfulness, “but she deserves to be told about.” Minding his pronouns, he continues, “She’s incredible. The kindest soul I’ve ever met. Her nobility is unparalleled. She would never leave a debt unpaid, nor a soul in harm’s way. She is unafraid to face any danger, be it a dragon or a man sick with corruption.”

He catches Geralt’s eye again, but the other man doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He lets Geralt’s lack of reaction embolden him. “She doesn’t say much. It is my punishment, I suppose, for barging into her life the way I did, that I must interpret her moods from her expressions alone.” He sighs dramatically, letting his eyelids flutter and his lips fall into a besotted smile. “But how exquisite those expressions are, and how I delight in coaxing them upon her face.”

“To hell with that sappy bullshit,” says one of the women sitting near him. “You speak in metaphors enough in your ballads. What does she look like? Is she noble or a commoner?”

Jaskier swallows. Involuntarily, he glances at Geralt, but the Witcher only looks amused, still waiting for Jaskier’s lies to fall apart. Jaskier understands his amusement. From Geralt’s perspective, Jaskier hasn’t properly courted a woman since the Countess de Stael.

Just as well for Jaskier, then, that Geralt hasn’t yet figured out the true object of his affections. “She’s fair-haired,” he says now to his audience. “With locks that reflect the sun like a thousand mirrors, and eyes golden as honeycombs. Taller than me, but with hips as slender as any child’s. And a bottom round as an apple,” he throws in with a cheeky wink. “She isn’t a noble, but she’s no commoner, either. She isn’t the type to sit back and let others do her work for her. She is strong—stronger than I, that’s for certain.” And he has to pause here as he remembers the way Geralt has thrown him over shoulder, has hauled him across terrain both rough and smooth with naught more than a grip on his collar. He swallows shakily, wills himself not to look at Geralt, though he can see out of his periphery that Geralt is staring at him now, intently, brow furrowed, lips thinned. Nonetheless, Jaskier continues digging his grave. Can’t leave his audience waiting, of course. 

“She isn’t one for tender touches,” he admits. “But still, she tolerates mine. I confess, I often wonder why she allows me to grace her side.”

“Perhaps you offer a nocturnal performance worth suffering the rest,” suggests one of the barmaids, and the others cackle in agreement. Jaskier simply shrugs. 

“Perhaps,” he acknowledges. Unable to help himself, he sneaks another glance toward Geralt, only to find Geralt’s intense glare trained directly on him. Try as he might, Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away. “Perhaps she keeps me around as a bedwarmer,” he continues slowly, his eyes locked on Geralt’s, “until she finds someone who is sweeter than me, or until she grows tired of my antics. Perhaps I am naught but temporary entertainment. But I adore her, truly. The sight of her is as water to a man lost in a desert, and her touch is softer than the finest Toussaintian silk.”

Geralt growls at that. He stands up abruptly, his chair skidding across the floor with a screech. “Say good night, Jaskier,” he rumbles, his eyes narrowed. “We have business of our own to attend to.”

Jaskier swallows. Finally, he looks away, back at his enraptured audience. “That’s enough for tonight, I suppose,” he concedes good-naturedly. “You’ll have to wait for the next ballad to hear more, though it won’t be long until I write it. My lady is too exquisite to keep her name from my lips for long.”

Geralt’s voice rumbles again, wordlessly, before Jaskier can get lost in his own words again. He claps a large hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, using it to steer him toward the stairs and their room. “Sweet dreams, ladies!” Jaskier calls over his shoulder, doffing his hat clumsily. “May you be luckier in love than I!”

Geralt doesn’t slam the door behind him, but it’s a near thing, and Jaskier would wince in sympathy if Geralt’s hand wasn’t still bearing down on his shoulder, rooting him in place. Geralt lets go after a moment and leans against the door, his arms crossed in typical Geraltian fashion. Jaskier collapses onto the bed, taking the opportunity to roll his shoulder a few times in exaggerated discomfort. “I swear I end up with more bruises than you do sometimes,” he complains. “I understand misery loves company, but perhaps next time you feel the urge to rough someone up, you could find another monster. Plenty of those around, and frankly, we could do with the extra coin, seeing as _someone_ kept me from buttering up the crowd to fatten our purses tonight—”

“There’s no lady,” Geralt says.

Jaskier trails off. “Well, of course not,” he says instead. “I imagine a woman would take grave offense to the frequency with which we give our patronage to brothels, not to mention your unseemly habit of bathing in monster blood and other revolting gunk.” He wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps I should write an ode to your masterful powers of observation next.”

“But you were talking about a woman tonight,” Geralt continues, ignoring Jaskier entirely. He tries not to take offense to that. Something tells him that any protest he offers will be utterly disregarded. “The same one your ballads are about, the one who broke your heart and left you wanting.”

Warmth blooms, unbidden, in Jaskier’s heart. Geralt has been listening to his songs. Geralt remembers his lyrics. Geralt knows enough about Jaskier’s lyrics to notice the details consistent through them all.

Geralt knows Jaskier is in love.

The warmth transforms instantly into a spear of ice, chilly tendrils spreading through Jaskier’s chest and pulsing through his veins even as he says, with false cheer, “They’re stories, Geralt. Hyperbole. I’m a poet. It’s what I do. Heartbreak is a universal emotion, and the gods know I’ve experienced it often enough in my short time upon this mortal coil. I could write songs about heartbreak in my sleep—and just you watch, I’ll be doing it tonight, you’ve really dug your own grave with this, my friend.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. He pushes off the door and stalks towards Jaskier, stopping just inches from the bed and forcing Jaskier to crane his neck to keep looking Geralt in the eye. Briefly, Jaskier considers climbing to his feet as well, to be on even ground with Geralt. However, doing so would place him chest-to-chest with the other man, and that isn’t something Jaskier can physically handle right now. So he stays put, his heart hammering wildly against his rib cage, and he’s certain Geralt, with his enhanced hearing, must be deafened by the sound.

“Someone once told me,” Geralt starts slowly, “that all good stories stem from a kernel of truth. So either your stories are shit, or you aren’t telling me the truth. Which is it, Jaskier?”

And here’s the problem with traipsing across the Continent behind a Witcher like a lost puppy, Jaskier reflects. He’s experienced a lifetime of adventure and filled uncountable notebooks with lyrics and learned more about Geralt than possibly any other being on the planet. But then, Geralt has had ample opportunity to peer into Jaskier’s soul, too. It’s easy to get caught up in Geralt’s brawn, and his stony silence, and his aversion to emotional commitment. It’s easy to forget how perceptive Geralt can be.

“The former, obviously,” quips Jaskier, a little breathlessly, a little too quietly. He wants to look away, wants to find an escape route, but Geralt is magnetic. Jaskier could drown in those golden eyes. And all the while he’s still running his mouth, trying to stave off the inevitable. “I’m all pie crust and no filling, didn’t you know? It’s a wonder I manage to earn enough to pay for a warm meal and a bed at the end of the day. That’s why I keep you around, actually. For your income. Certainly not for the riveting conversation. Certainly not because I—because I need you.”

“And yet,” Geralt murmurs, reaching out to tip Jaskier’s chin up with a single knuckle, “here we are.”

When did Jaskier’s mouth get so dry? He licks his lips, watches Geralt’s eyes dip down to track the motion. “Here we are.”

Jaskier doesn’t know whether to close his eyes to give Geralt implicit consent or leave them open to track every emotion crossing Geralt’s face, doesn’t know whether to lean into Geralt’s touch or pull away and offer Geralt an out. Instead he waits, pulse racing, teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the slightest gust of wind to send him careening into freefall.

And it comes: a shallow breath against his lips, before Geralt’s mouth is covering his, stealing a kiss and Jaskier’s breath in one fell swoop. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to collect himself before he’s surging in again, teeth tugging gently at Jaskier’s lips and coaxing a gasp from him, tongue pushing past the moment Jaskier’s lips part. It’s heady and intoxicating, and Jaskier can feel his mind going fuzzy as he focuses solely on matching Geralt’s intensity.

Somehow they end up horizontal, with Jaskier’s feet still dangling off the edge of the bed and Geralt on his hands and knees above Jaskier. Geralt presses close, his weight pinning Jaskier down, and Jaskier thinks there’s no place he would rather be than right here, Geralt’s thighs bracketing his, falling into a sweet messy rhythm that has Jaskier arching his back and scrabbling uselessly at Geralt’s broad torso and keening into Geralt’s mouth. Eventually he gives in and tosses his head back, opening his neck to Geralt’s ministrations and giving himself over entirely to the quicksilver pleasure coursing through him.

Once they’ve stilled and caught their breath, Geralt moves just far enough to drag Jaskier fully onto the bed and no further. He continues stealing sweet kisses, seemingly determined to swallow all the air from Jaskier’s lungs before letting him go.

“You’re not temporary entertainment,” Geralt rumbles an eternity later against Jaskier’s lips, their breath mingling. Jaskier revels in that simple phrase and the intimate action that accompanied it, feels his blood singing with the knowledge that Geralt reciprocates his feelings, might want Jaskier as a permanent fixture by his side—until Geralt continues, “You’ve never been entertaining.”

“Oi, fuck off!” Jaskier gasps in mock indignation. He pushes himself away and braces a hand against Geralt’s chest to keep him at arm’s length. “You weren’t complaining about my performance just now!”

But Geralt is laughing quietly, his whole body shaking against Jaskier’s, and Jaskier lets himself be pulled back into Geralt’s arms, lets Geralt kiss his anger away. His last thought before he launches a campaign to make Geralt regret his words is an apology to the women he’d been singing to in the tavern below; his next ballad may be a long time coming yet.


End file.
